By Chuck Wendig
The second one dying famous person has been destroyed, the Emperor killed, and Darth Vader struck down. Devastating blows opposed to the Empire, and significant victories for the insurgent Alliance. however the conflict for freedom is way from over.
As the Empire reels from its severe defeats on the conflict of Endor, the insurgent Alliance—now a fledgling New Republic—presses its virtue by means of removing the enemy's scattered forces ahead of they could regroup and retaliate. yet above the distant planet Akiva, an ominous express of the enemy's power is unfolding. Out on a lone reconnaissance venture, pilot Wedge Antilles watches Imperial megastar Destroyers assemble like birds of prey circling for a kill, yet is taken captive sooner than he can report to the recent Republic leaders.
Meanwhile, at the planet's floor, former insurgent fighter Norra Wexley has back to her local world—war weary, able to reunite together with her estranged son, and wanting to construct a brand new existence in a few far away position. but if Norra intercepts Wedge Antilles's pressing misery name, she realizes her time as a freedom fighter isn't but over. What she doesn't be aware of is simply how shut the enemy is—or how decisive and hazardous her new challenge will be.
Determined to maintain the Empire's strength, the surviving Imperial elite are converging on Akiva for a top-secret emergency summit—to consolidate their forces and rally for a counterstrike. yet they haven't reckoned at the Norra and her newfound allies—her technical genius son, a Zabrak bounty hunter, and a reprobate Imperial defector—who are ready to do no matter what they have to to finish the Empire's oppressive reign as soon as and for all.
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Extra info for Aftermath
Whenever it stopped of its own accord at one of those holes bordered with thorns that farmers dig along the edge of their ploughed land, Charles, waking with a start, would quickly remember the broken leg, and try to recall all the fractures that he knew. It was no longer raining; day was breaking, and, on the leaﬂess branches of the apple trees, birds sat motionless, ﬂuﬃng out their tiny feathers in the cold morning wind. The ﬂat landscape extended as far as the eye could see, the clumps of trees round the farms making widely spaced splashes of dark purple on that vast grey surface which, at the horizon, merged with the dreary tones of the sky.
When he entered Les Bertaux his horse took fright, and shied violently. It was a prosperous-looking farm. Through the open half-doors of the stables you could see huge draught horses placidly feeding from brand-new mangers. A stream of vapour arose from the big manureheap that ﬂanked the buildings, and, standing out among the hens and turkeys, ﬁve or six peacocks––that luxury of Pays de Caux farmyards––were pecking for food. The sheep-run was long and the barn tall, with walls as smooth as the back of your hand.
Père Rouault embraced his future son-in-law. They put oﬀ any discussion of money matters, there was plenty of time for that, since the marriage could not decently take place before the end of Charles’s mourning, that is to say, not until the following spring. The winter passed in waiting. Mademoiselle Rouault busied herself with her trousseau. Part of it was ordered from Rouen, and she made herself nightgowns and nightcaps with the help of fashionplates which she borrowed. During the visits Charles made to the Madame Bovary farm they talked about the preparations for the wedding, wondering which room they’d use for the wedding feast, how many courses they’d have, and what particular dishes they’d serve.